


Love Bites

by StudyOfTheBrain



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, faceshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StudyOfTheBrain/pseuds/StudyOfTheBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have an issue with Sherlock's scarf. Interestingly enough, the scarf is part of the solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Bites

**Author's Note:**

> I received a request for something to do with Sherlock's scarf, and so here you have it. My favourite part of this is where you can tell the exact moment I decided to disregard any sort of plot entirely.

Sherlock’s worn his scarf for two days straight. John was even beginning to think that he’s bathing in it.

“You’re still wearing your scarf.”

“Observant.”

“Take it off, you look ridiculous.”

“I’m quite alright.”

Even though they’re in the flat and have been since they returned from the morgue over an hour ago, Sherlock’s wearing his scarf, the purple item looking entirely out of place on his day clothes. There isn’t so much as a jacket on his shoulders to balance the bulk of the fabric wrapped around his neck.

John’s empty teacup goes into the sink. “No, really, what’s that about?” he asked. 

Sherlock doesn’t look at him, instead he’s regarding an open folder filled with paper. It’s possible that he’s not even reading anything. “I don’t see how this is any of your business.”

“Oh, you would be shocked how you looking stupid is my business.”

A sigh of frustration rattles through his nose. Sherlock closes the folder and put it down on the sitting room table. John will likely be the one filing it away later, grumpily and begrudgingly. “You left bruises on my neck. I don’t want people seeing them. Is your curiosity satisfied?”

A smirk graces John’s features and he took a few steps towards the other. “Really? Well, come on, let’s see it, then.”

With a clench of his jaw and a begrudging expression, Sherlock pulls on the end of the scarf and it slides from his neck, moving round and round like a slithering python, and John sees why it was there in the first place. The bruises form a half-circle around his neck, starting from beneath one side of his jaw and trailing over to the other, as if Sherlock is wearing a necklace of black and purple. John can’t help but laugh at this.

“Well, it’s not like you have to wear it in front of me! I’m the one who put them there!”

With a huff, Sherlock said, “Too much of a distraction.”

There might be some truth to that; John looks at them and remembers making them, he remembers Sherlock moving and arching beneath him, he remembers running his finger along Sherlock’s chest and feeling his nipple through his shirt, circling the stiffened button of flesh with his fingertips. John remembers Sherlock sucking his cock that night too, and he’s secretly pleased he doesn’t have to wear the evidence of that as well. 

John tilts Sherlock’s chin up to get a better look at them and Sherlock makes a sound like an angry cat. “Ah, well, they’ll be gone soon,” he offered. The first button of Sherlock’s pale shirt is open. His skin looks as white as ivory beneath it. His features twitch and he tries to pull away but John doesn’t allow it-- he puts one hand on the back of his neck and curls the other near the armpit of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him close. John tried to kiss him and Sherlock turned. “Don’t be like that.” John’s voice is soft, as light as a cloud. 

He seemed to resist at first, his mouth twisted in annoyance, but after just a moment he’s playing along too, submitting to the touch of John’s fingers twisting in a strand of his hair, the way his lips ghosted across the corner of his mouth, his chin. When John kisses against one of the bruises Sherlock grumbles in pain, causing John to nip and suck elsewhere, making new dark red and purple circles wherever he plants his mouth. He remembers John giving him the bruises, too. He remembers John inside him, on him, all over him. There’s something hard pressing against his leg and he knows John remembers this also. 

Sherlock’s large hand moves between them, rubbing up the interior of John’s thigh until he felt the stiff line of John’s cock. He curls his hand around it, squeezing it through the fabric so that John gasps and purrs.

“Pig,” he said against the other’s lips. John takes the dark purple scarf from Sherlock’s hands and hooks it around the back of his neck, pulling him into their kiss. The fabric sways around them like spirals of ribbon and they seem to dance in it, Sherlock stepping backwards, his feet dodging loose papers and fallen candlesticks, a fountain pen, a dusting of ash, John both following and guiding him at once. The back of Sherlock’s calves make contact with the sofa and he sits down on it, one leg already up on the cushions as if anticipating that John will lie down on top of him. John hesitates.

“Can I get the lube or is there not enough time in your schedule?” he teases.

“I have six and a half minutes.”

John lets the scarf slip from his hands, falling around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Oh, _ha ha._ ”

He returns with the pot of lubricant and Sherlock is laid out on the couch, his hand looking as pale as chalk as it rubs his arousal through his black trousers. His stiffness is tenting the material, looking long and needy, and John wants desperately to put his mouth on it, to suck it and taste it through the material. Straddling Sherlock’s long legs, John takes Sherlock’s wandering hand and places it on his own need, guiding it up and down, letting him feel it as it grows and pulses against the thick fabric of his jeans.

Sherlock’s chest heaved with the force of his breathing as John opened the buttons of his shirt, his thick soldier’s fingers moving as nimbly as a seamstress to expose the pale expanse of chest beneath it. His belly taut, his waist a slender, inward taper from the breadth of his chest. As John opens Sherlock’s trousers and slides them down his legs he can see the dark, coarse hairs poking up from his black pants, his cock so hard inside them that John could make out every line of his prick, every vein, and he felt a perverse sort of pride in knowing that he was responsible for that. As if to taste his victory, John lowered his head and kissed Sherlock through his pants, humming in delight at the flavour, the smell, his mouth wet and warm and open on the clothed bulge.

 _”John,”_ Sherlock moans, the name low and drawn, and John frees the reddened organ from its confines, throwing the pants somewhere behind him.

The scarf is still trapped behind Sherlock’s neck and he pulls on it, moving as if to throw it onto the floor. John reaches for it, snatching it before Sherlock had a chance to release his grasp on it. “No,” he protested. “Something better.”

The scarf went round and round his wrists, looping through itself until it was a tight knot about his hands. He wriggles them, his elbows sticking outward, testing it. “Not perfectly terrible. Could get out of it if I wanted.”

John lifts Sherlock’s legs up onto his shoulders, his hips tipping invitingly. The remaining length of the scarf falls over Sherlock’s chest in a waterfall of purple fabric. “Yes,” John agreed, unzipping his trousers, his clothed cock popping out through the V of his open jeans. “You could. But you won’t.”

John rubs himself all over with the palm of his hand, making Sherlock watch it through his open legs, the long limbs mounted on John’s shoulders. He curls his fist around the bulge in his pants, drawing his fist up, bringing himself to his full length and hardness until he’s panting, each tug of his hand bringing incredible heat into his groin. _”Look what you’ve done to me,”_ he whispered, dampness darkening the fabric of his pants. He presses his thumb into the underside as he draws up his hand and precome squeezes out the slit, thick and wet. _”Look what you’ve made me do to myself.”_

Sherlock pulses his hips up, his body begging openly with a little _fuck me_ gesture, and the desperation of the gesture isn’t lost on John. He can see Sherlock’s prick becoming stiff against his belly, smearing trails of sticky wetness beneath his navel, he can smell the heat that’s coming off of him like a perfume, a scent bottled in France. He smells like _Fougère Royale_ , _Eau de l’Animal en Rut_. Sherlock wriggles his backside closer to John, his slender hips shimmying as he begs for John’s cock, mewls for it, destroys himself and his mask of aristocratic coldness for it. John finally pulls his prick from his pants, holding the base of it as it bobs free, hard and shiny, and Sherlock moans shamelessly into the air, his back curving into a long, slender arch as he lifts himself from the couch in heated desire. 

“Soon enough,” John assures him, sliding a finger into his mouth to wet it. The saliva does almost nothing to lubricate him and Sherlock rolls his hips as it fits between his legs, his muscles clenching down hard and tight.

“That’s right,” John encouraged, circling the digit, pressing it against Sherlock’s internal walls. The act feels dirty and he loves it. He puts in another finger and the other man makes a low wailing sound, his legs opening, knees drawing to his chest as if to make room for them, for John. John can actually hear himself moving in Sherlock, the wet sound of his fingers as they pump in and out, scissor open and closed, circle, prod. John withdraws them quickly and Sherlock whines. 

The lubricant makes John’s cock shiny and slick and he uses the excess to prepare Sherlock’s insides, the two fingers moving in so slickly now. Sherlock begs him again. _Please, John. Please._

When John finally gets inside, the coals in his belly are on fire. Sherlock wraps around him, enveloping him in heat and wetness and tightness, and John doesn’t waste a single second before he’s using him, taking Sherlock by the hips and bouncing him against his groin, literally fucking himself with Sherlock’s body. The scarf falls over Sherlock’s belly, over his prick, and when John bats it away there’s a syrupy trail like a spider web from the end of Sherlock’s cock to the fabric of the scarf. 

Sherlock’s voice is staccato in his throat, John’s name hiccupped into the air with the force of his thrusts. John took Sherlock’s heels and pressed them together, placing them both on his left shoulder and leaning forward so that Sherlock was almost folded in half. The sound of their rutting was flat and wet, the sound of flesh on flesh. From this position Sherlock could see the in and out movement of John’s cock entering him, how wet and thick it looked as it used him. He struggled against the scarf, tugging and pulling in his bondage, his prick so hard between his legs he could have just died with it. John’s hands came up under Sherlock’s hips, his own knees spreading so that his cock was sent deeper, the bucking movements more powerful. 

“Beg me,” John orders him, his voice heavy with his efforts. He’s looking at Sherlock’s gushing cock, soaked from its own clear fluids. “Beg me to fuck you.”

He’s so positively stupid from pleasure that he doesn’t think he can, but Sherlock’s plump and flushed lips part and he’s moaning for John to _fuck me, fuck me, John, oh, god, yes, fuck me._ That baritone voice and erudite vocabulary crumble for John. His pride turns to dust. Only John gets to see this bare skeleton, Sherlock in ruins. John’s prick is thick to bursting and his belly aches and burns. When he speaks again it’s hurried and desperate.

_“Open your mouth, Sherlock.”_

Sherlock does as he’s told and John withdraws, pushing Sherlock’s lanky limbs to the side. With a few quick motions of his hand, John’s coming with a sound between a groan and a snarl, emptying himself over Sherlock’s face, thick white ropes over his cheeks and in his mouth. John keeps him in this balled up position as he wanks him to completion, Sherlock’s orgasm sloppy and pathetic. For a moment he thinks that John is going to make him come into his own mouth with the way he’s bent and how his cock is pointed, but he doesn’t; his cock spasms and his come spurts and pools in a mess on his chest. Looking up at John with large eyes, Sherlock swipes his red tongue over his lips, licking at the splatter of fluids on him, looking sweet and innocent with his hands bound on his belly as he performs perversity for John, becomes utterly filthy. John unties his wrists and uses Sherlock’s scarf to wipe away the mess on his face and chest then uses it to clean his cock of the oily lubricant. Sherlock grimaces and grumbles in annoyance when it’s tossed back to him. 

“Was that necessary?” he asked, taking the scarf between his index and middle finger and dropping it in a pile on the floor. “What are you laughing at?”

He’s caught John in the middle of a private smirk. John points. “Good luck keeping those hidden now.”

With the press of his fingers, Sherlock can feel the evidence of their play that makes a half-circle on his neck, his necklace of bruises.

Sherlock, the know it all, replied, “I told you it was a distraction.”


End file.
